


Four Times John Didn't Propose, and One Time Sherlock Did

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Sherlock Kink Meme, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from the kink meme about Sherlock deducing that John is going to propose to him, only for John to do a bunch of other things that are not proposing. So each time Sherlock is surer and surer that John is going to propose, and then....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times John Didn't Propose, and One Time Sherlock Did

**Author's Note:**

> This started out small, then grew into a monster so I thought I'd post it here on my SHINY NEW ACCOUNT instead of directly to the meme.
> 
> This fic comes with an accidental soundtrack:  
> 1\. The first four bits were written while listening to 'On Top of the World' by Imagine Dragons on repeat  
> 2\. The last bit (and the latter half of the fourth bit) were written while listening to 'Sarah' by Ray Lamontagne.  
> This is my first fic on this website and the first Sherlock fic I've written with my name attached to it!

1.

When he first became suspect, he wanted to laugh at himself for the absurdity. He, Sherlock Holmes, _married?_ It was almost as funny as the idea of Mycroft standing up and walking someplace. No, no, he was better off without it, of course. There was no _actual_ indication of marriage, ever. However, after John's sixth "outing" in a row with twice-married-lady-killer Lestrade, coupled with the oddly fond and longing looks from Mrs. Hudson whenever she saw them together, Sherlock had put the pieces together fairly quickly. His original assumptions had been wrong, apparently.

And now, he was walking (slugging, really) through Kensington Gardens with his partner of two years and eleven months, John Watson.

It was the first sunny and warm day of spring, upon which occasion John pressured Sherlock into abandoning some very intense research to go outside. John almost _never_ interrupted Sherlock when he was so steadily focused, regardless of the weather. But John didn't take "can't you see how pertinent this is?" for an answer.

They had been walking in relative silence for seven minutes now, Sherlock digging his hands farther and farther into his coat. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just unusual for John as of late. They walked so close their sides brushed periodically.

"I told you it was nice out," John commented after more silence. Sherlock twisted his lips but said nothing in response, instead glancing over a young (newly immigrated, northern India) family playing with a baby in the grass. John followed Sherlock's gaze and couldn't help but smile. Sherlock felt his partner stiffen and tense beside him, and internally, he sighed.

Kensington Gardens. Beautiful in warm months, not quite as cliché as Hyde Park for a garden proposal. There were dozens of private pockets of benches spread out around the perimeter. Perfect for typical romance.

 _Let him down gently,_ Sherlock reminded himself as they picked up their pace just enough to make it round the next corner. They had traveled into one of those pockets of stone benches and flowered trellises, and Sherlock briefly wondered if John were pulling a joke on him. John paused beside one of the vines, remarking on how large the buds were and how some were already starting to bloom, when Sherlock took a seat on the bench.

“Beautiful,” John breathed as he smiled at his partner. “Just lovely.” John remained standing, clasping his hands behind him and walking among the vines, leaving Sherlock on the bench.

 _Checking to see if anyone is nearby,_ Sherlock surmised. _He wants complete privacy._ Sherlock smiled despite himself, speculating on how many times John tweaked and changed his plan. He could almost hear the cogs turning in John’s military brain, churning out possible scenarios and planning for the perfect one.

“John?” Sherlock called when the former took longer than he had expected. John re-appeared among the bushels, his cheeks pink.

“Sorry, had a bit of a jog-round, thought I heard a dog wailing,” John replied as he retreated back to the bench. His hands were still in his jacket pockets and he was wearing a half-smile that Sherlock took as purely suspicious.

“John, why did you insist I accompany you?” Sherlock asked, leaning back on the bench. “You never interrupt my experiments when they’re at their height.” John shrugged and rocked back onto his heels, as if the answer were obvious.

“Perhaps I’m testing the limits you place on me,” John said, locking eyes with Sherlock. They shared a quiet and serious gaze that made Sherlock’s stomach tighten. John’s eyes went from quizzical to soft to that look of _adoration_ he let slip through whenever his thoughts drifted and he was looking at Sherlock. The detective couldn’t help but produce a small smile. He placed his hands in his lap.

John removed one hand from his jacket, took a half-step forward, looked down, and then sank to one knee in the grass beside the bench. Sherlock held his breath, balling his hands into fists and peering down at John. He could just see the other man over the edge of his nose and even though Sherlock had decided that marriage was a ridiculous institution the idea of a proposal was making him feel…. _giddy._ It was an uncomfortable and frankly unwelcome feeling, and he had to force his face from breaking into the school girl smile that was threatened.

“John, before you—” Sherlock began, leaning over onto his knees, when he stopped mid-sentence. John was fiddling with the laces of his shoes, one of which was too long and the other too short. He cursed under his breath and glanced up, furrowing his brow.

“Before I what? Tie my shoe? Sherlock, it’s—actually…” John murmured, and he stood, instead placing his foot on the bench. “This is certainly easier to see, now.” With a grunt he pulled the laces tight, yelped, loosened them, and then sighed, sitting beside Sherlock on the bench. “I can’t stop having difficulty with these trainers,” he muttered, and Sherlock sniggered from his side. John shot him a _look_ and completely undid his shoe, re-lacing it in his lap. They sat in more silence, Sherlock’s heart hammering against his breastbone like he was waiting for a verdict.

After John was done, he placed his foot on the dirt pathway, leaning back on his palms. Sherlock had moved his hands to the bench beside him and John had covered one with his own.

Nothing else happened for the rest of the afternoon. 

* * *

2.

John was forcing him to wear a tie.

“No,” Sherlock protested, practically ducking when the former began towards him with the silk contraption in his hands. “ _No,_ John.”

“Don’t be a prat,” John responded, his own tie hanging loose around his neck. “We’re going to _Alain Ducasse_ , and I’d like you to wear a tie.”

“Any place that requires any sort of dress should be closed,” Sherlock countered, and John winced at the childish tone.

“I don’t _care_ what you think, they’ve been wanting us to come for _ages_ since you got them off,” John responded, biting his lower lip and matching Sherlock’s forlorn expression. Sherlock briefly contemplated throwing his blazer on John’s head and making a run for it, but the thought passed as soon as it came.

Of course, the tie John was offering was a very smart tie, a royal violet hue with delicate embroidered details that actually did perfectly match his best dress shirt. Considering John had picked out both, he’d be surprised if they didn’t.

“And wear the cufflinks,” John ordered as he slipped the tie around Sherlock’s neck and brought it to a neat Windsor knot. John half-grinned at Sherlock’s groan of disapproval. “You look _fine,_ ” John pressed. He cocked his head to the side. “Although… an Eldridge knot would make you look a bit too posh, wouldn’t it?”

“I _certainly_ wouldn’t want the general populace to find me even more unapproachable,” Sherlock muttered with such sarcasm that John had to turn away to stifle his laughter.

“Have you looked at the menu? I don’t want you deducing the ingredients on everything again,” John asked as he tied his own tie in the mirror above their mantel. His eyes drifted to Sherlock in the reflection, pulling on his shirt sleeve like a child. He tilted his head and his wild curls bounced against his forehead, thin lines of silver flickering between the dark sheathes. John didn’t realize he was grinning until he looked back at himself, where his grin quickly vanished as he saw his forlorn knot.

Sherlock’s gaze was settled on John’s blazer, draped over his armchair. It seemed unusually bulky tonight, even for John. Sherlock though back over the details of how they ended up attending one of the most posh restaurants in the city: it was often that businesses would offer them free services in thanks for helping out in cases, but John rarely took them up on that offer unless they were purely practical. When Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester offered, John nearly fell over himself at the chance and spent a good portion of the day convincing Sherlock to make time to go.

 _Fancy restaurant,_ Sherlock thought. _Ties. Cufflinks._ _A very smart proposal atmosphere._ His eyebrows arched and he glanced back at the blazer. His partner was either hiding a very oddly-shaped revolver or something else entirely inside the charcoal-colored sleeves.

“You almost ready?” John asked, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock was still half-dressed, and John couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “My God, Sherlock, at the very least put your shoes on, we’re going to be late.”

“This restaurant has a very private atmosphere, yes?” Sherlock inquired. John brushed out Sherlock’s blazer with his hands, contemplating a pocket square for him. He glanced at him, furrowing his brow.

“Uh, yes? I don’t know, I’ve never been, since, well,” John responded, gesturing to the air as if it explained his thoughts. Sherlock ‘hmm’ed but said nothing else, and finally allowed John to help him into his blazer. The cab had already been waiting five minutes before they made it downstairs, and had to practically peel Mrs. Hudson off of them when she wanted them to stay to take photos of their dress. They clambered inside the cab and sped away, John staring out the window in concentration as they went. Sherlock’s face pinkened as they approached the restaurant, and Sherlock also hated himself for feeling this way.

 _This must be it,_ Sherlock convinced himself in the cab. He could see the outline of something small and flat inside of John’s blazer. _Oh, God, he has a ring this time._

It turned out that John _did_ have an unusual revolver in his blazer, for he used it when one of the accomplices of the men they’d caught the month prior exploded from a room behind the deep-freeze and tried to hit Sherlock with a chair. He probably would have succeeded, considering Sherlock had been contemplating actually answering _yes_ for the entirety of their entrees.

* * *

3.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street one day after a disastrous meeting with Mycroft and his mother to find Mrs. Hudson Hoovering their flat. Seeing Mrs. Hudson in his flat wasn’t that unusual, but seeing her doing something such as _Hoovering_ was a bit jarring.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked as he stepped across the threshold. Mrs. Hudson jumped and spun around, having had her back turned to the door.

“Goodness, Sherlock, you startled me!” she proclaimed, and John poked his head through from the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re… earlier than I expected,” John said, glancing at his watch. Sherlock raised one eyebrow and remained standing in the center of the room, hands deeply buried in his coat.

“Sherlock, it’s getting so warm out, aren’t you hot in that coat?” Mrs. Hudson asked as John ducked back into the kitchen at great speed. Their landlady stopped the machine and instead rearranged their armchairs back to their usual formation, dragging the coffee table over. It occurred to Sherlock that maybe he should help, and he did, although Mrs. Hudson protested.

“Oh, dear, please take that off, you’re making me sweat just looking at you,” Mrs. Hudson pressed, and she helped him shrug out of the coat and hung it behind the door. The doors to the kitchen were closed, which was unusual, and Sherlock walked over to them before Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

“Sherlock, would you be a dear and help me reach these things? John put them up here while I was cleaning but I’m not quite as good as you at climbing your furniture,” Mrs. Hudson said, and gestured to the top of their bookshelf. Some of Sherlock’s scientific displays, in addition to his skull, had been moved very, very high. Sherlock then looked at the mantel and realized it was _empty._ And had been _cleaned._

“Mrs. Hudson, did you do all of this?” Sherlock asked as he finally took in the details of the room. The carpets were clean, everything was stacked, the pillows on the sofa had magically re-appeared from their various hiding places. Their table was neatly arranged, and all of the window frames and picture frames had been dusted and wiped clean. The cleanliness made Sherlock uneasy, and he was very tempted to go over and knock something over out of frustration. His “mess” was very organized and very personal, although upon further inspection, he saw that nothing had been _replaced…_ just neatened.

“I thought I could help,” Mrs. Hudson offered, holding a used rag in her hand. As Sherlock locked eyes with her he saw that _look_ again—the fond one that she only reserved for his relationship with John. The kitchen door squeaked and John appeared, closing it behind him. He seemed a bit flushed but said nothing of it, and crossed the room to join them.

“I thought your meeting was supposed to go until later,” John said, handing glasses of wine to both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. Sherlock glanced from John to Mrs. Hudson back to John, and he _knew_ that something was going on. He accepted the glass and gave it a sip, surprised that it was the precise white wine that Sherlock actually liked.

“It’s difficult to have a civil conversation with Mycroft for an extended period of time,” Sherlock responded curtly. “And having my mother there did _not_ make it easier.”

“Oh, your poor mother, how she must _fret_ over you two,” Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock sighed. “And before you ask, Mycroft insisted on meeting all the way in Sussex because he’s _engaged,_ ” Sherlock said, stressing the word. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who shot a surprised expression at John. John received the look and turned to Sherlock, looking honestly surprised. This entire exchange happened in about less than a second, long enough for Sherlock to catch onto their ploy.

“Oh?” John asked. “To, uh, Antika?”

“Anika,” Sherlock corrected. Mrs. Hudson looked very excited.

“Right,” John said. “She’s very… nice.”

“She’s much too good for Mycroft,” Sherlock said flatly. “She’s very intelligent, clever, and has excellent connections.”

“She’s that really beautiful woman Mycroft was here with last Christmas,” John offered to their landlady. “The one who works for the Indian consulate.”

“Oh, she was a delight!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “Oh, Sherlock, how wonderful for your brother. Your mother must be pleased.”

“She certainly is, that’s for sure,” Sherlock said, twisting his mouth. “Anika is pregnant.” Both John and Mrs. Hudson gasped, and Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her chest.

“Oh, _Sherlock,_ you’re going to be an uncle,” she said, placing her other hand on his arm.

“It certainly is wonderful,” John said, and he seemed honestly pleased for Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson looked at them both with that same _look_ and Sherlock’s stomach dropped at the sight. John was cooking in the kitchen, something with tomatoes and cilantro and pasta and it smelled quite good, actually. Sherlock’s eyes traveled from the kitchen doors to John, who seemed to be contemplating his nearly empty glass. He glanced up and locked eyes with Sherlock, and smiled. It was understated but natural, and it was the smile that made Sherlock feel foolishly helpless whenever John showed it. It was his _I love you_ smile, a look reserved for Sherlock and Sherlock only. A smile he’d seen but never understood, for years before they became a couple. Mrs. Hudson looked from one man to the other and awkwardly coughed.

“John, dear, perhaps you should keep an eye on the kitchen?” she suggested, breaking their reverie. John’s eyes widened and his smile vanished as he turned and rushed back inside, although nothing seemed to be burning. Mrs. Hudson just smiled at Sherlock. “I’m going to be right back, boys, alright?” she said, and left the flat in a flash. Sherlock, now alone with his glass, resigned himself to his armchair and continued observing the clean room. It was a foreign sight, but it didn’t make him as uneasy as when he first noticed. Besides, it’d be a mess soon enough and—had he missed the fine linen on their table _completely?_ No, no, Mrs. Hudson had been moving around after Hoovering, she must have put it there…

Sherlock barely noticed as John appeared in front of him, a dish towel draped over his shoulder. He wasn’t dressed _up_ but he was dressed nicely, and he smelled oddly good, too. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, leaned down, and pressed his lips to his forehead, planting a kiss just beneath his hairline.

Sherlock tilted his head back as John pulled away, once again locking eyes with him. It was then that John leaned in once more and brought a kiss to his lips, moving his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder to his cheek instead.

At this moment, Sherlock would have agreed to _anything._ It may seem to the outside world that Sherlock ordered John around but in reality _John_ could have made _Sherlock Holmes_ bend over backwards for anything in the world. As John pulled away, crouched in front of Sherlock and smiling like a teenager, Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. How could he _possibly_ say no to the only person who made him feel human in the entire world? The only person who he would give up everything for—detective work, connections, intelligence, his _life_ , even—even if Sherlock wasn’t keen on the idea of marriage?

_Although…_

“John,” Sherlock said in a soft voice that didn’t sound entirely his own, “what is this about?” John sighed and got on his knees, leaning on Sherlock’s lap with his head in his hands.

“I wanted to surprise you,” John admitted, finally. “When Mycroft demanded you meet with him and your mother today, I knew it’d be the best opportunity to do something like this for you.” At _this_ John gestured to the flat behind him. “Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to help me.”

“What is ‘this’, though?” Sherlock asked. His heart was beating irregularly and his entire body was tense. _This is it._ John rolled his eyes and took Sherlock’s hands in his own. Sherlock was sitting ramrod straight, blue eyes practically bugging from his head.

“I know things like this don’t mean much to you,” John began, his eyes never straying from Sherlock’s. “And I didn’t really expect you to remember. But… these almost-three-years have been the best of my life,” he continued. “And since we’ll be on an assignment with Lestrade during our _actual_ anniversary in two weeks, I wanted to celebrate it tonight instead.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Two weeks in advance?” he said, his voice suspicious. John shrugged.

“It’s the _only day_ where I was going to be here all day and you weren’t,” he admitted. “I’m either at the surgery, or we’re both here because you don’t have a day job, or we’re both off someplace,” John explained. “I just… wanted to do something for you. Since you already have done so much for me.” Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again, not sure what to say. His mind drew a momentary blank, so he said the first thing that came into it:

“I love you.” John leaned back as if he had been slapped, shocked to hear the words so bluntly from Sherlock’s mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but certainly the most blunt. Sherlock wasn’t into _saying_ he loved John, he more showed it in his own special way. The two stared at one another, then John sniggered and broke down laughing in Sherlock’s lap, to which Sherlock replied with a wild grin.

 _I’m already bound to this man for life, I may as well enter into a ceremony for him,_ Sherlock thought. _Only for John._ Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to return, with a large foiled package in her hands.

“My great-nieces and I made this yesterday while you boys were out,” she said, placing it on the edge of the linened table. “But we made far too much, so I’ll leave it for your dessert.” With that she smiled at them, winked, and then left the flat, practically skipping down the stairs.

It wasn’t until Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night with John wrapped securely in his arms that he realized that he _still_ wasn’t engaged. 

* * *

4.

Someone was stroking his forehead. No, someone’s thumb was stroking his forehead. Yes, there it was. Stroking, and breathing. Rapid-fire, unconscious breaths, each one an exhale of stress. Knees beneath his neck shifted, and the smells of earth came back to him. He was lying on the ground. His head was in someone’s lap.

The hand left his forehead and instead pushed through his curls as gently as possible, as if each curl were being individually cared for. It was almost motherly.

Voices.

“You could be arrested, mate.”

“I didn’t actually _hit_ him. Besides, I was provoked.”

“…I…. I don’t know if the police would, uh, go for that.” There was a chuckle.

“I _know_ Lestrade, don’t worry about it.”

And then, there was a rush of pain. The right side of his face was burning, his entire head was throbbing, and the pain was so sudden Sherlock Holmes choked on his own breath, coming to life with a series of escalating coughs. He forced his eyes open and found that his right eye was refusing to cooperate; what he could see was haze and darkness.

“Sherlock? Oh, God. Sit up, before you choke, come now.” The hand from his forehead traveled to his back and he was sitting up, but his head was spinning with the sudden movement. His stomach lurched, and he was positive for one moment that someone was jamming an ice pick into his eye.

 _I’m concussed,_ Sherlock rationalized. _I’m not being lobotomized._

“Sherlock?” the voice was hesitant. “Sherlock… do you know who I am? Do you recognize me? Please, say something.” Sherlock blinked rapidly and his vision cleared in an instant. John was hovering above him, brow creased to infinity with worry, his tongue pressed between his lips in the way he never realized he did. Of course. It was their third anniversary and he’d been hit in the head with a cricket bat. In the middle of the night. Somewhere west of Sheffield.

“If you and Lestrade hadn’t had a pint earlier, this wouldn’t have happened,” Sherlock croaked out as he placed a hand over his swollen eye, laying back down. John blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed deeply, closing his eyes.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured. “You…augh.”

Benji Stoughton, the young assistant they’d gained in this case, was kneeling beside them, hands folded in his lap. He kept looking around them as if they were being watched. “When will the Detective Inspector be here?” he asked. John was looking into Sherlock’s good eye with a pen light, leaning over him protectively.

“Well, now that Sherlock is awake, maybe we can move someplace he’ll actually find us,” John offered. “Although Sherlock shouldn’t move much.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Please, a concussion is—”

“Head trauma,” John finished, turning off his light. “You were out for a good five minutes, Sherlock. You’re going to see a neurologist as soon as we get back to London.” Benji looked over his shoulder again and Sherlock suddenly sat straight up.

“Wait—where did he go? The man? With the sack of meat?” Sherlock asked, recalling _why_ he had been hit in the head with a cricket bat. Benji pointed down the hill they were perched on.

“He’s, uh, there,” he said, and Sherlock pushed John away enough to see that the man he’d been pursuing was tied to a tree about half way down the hill. His right leg was bandaged up, and he looked very cross.

“I skimmed his leg,” John explained, and he nodded to the revolver resting in the grass. “I was trying to _hit_ his leg after he bludgeoned you with the bat.”

“That wasn’t very good,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Shooting suspects.”

“Your eye is going to be black for a while,” John stated, ignoring Sherlock. “You’ll probably be able to use it in a few days once the swelling goes down but it’ll be tender. I don’t think the actual eye was injured, but I’m not an optometrist. You should see one of those as well,” John added as an afterthought.

“I think—I see the D.I.!” Benji said, rising to his feet and waving enthusiastically. The trio was crouched behind one of the many large, fat tree stumps that littered the crest of the hill. Sherlock and John both looked over the stump, John still kneeling, Sherlock still sitting. The cricket bat lay innocently near the revolver, and the smell of rotting meat began wafting up towards them.

“He’s over—over there,” Benji was telling the two other officers who had come with Lestrade. “And his warehouse is down the ridge.”

“Where’s—oh, good God,” Lestrade sighed as he saw Sherlock frowning at him.

“I had to be hit with a bat to account for your tardiness,” Sherlock said as Lestrade crossed to them.

“Well, at least it wasn’t with a gun,” Lestrade admitted. Benji had led the other two officers down the hill to where their phony butcher was tied. “So the warehouse is down there then?”

“We believe so,” John supplied. “The other men in the operation are on their way to London, and this fellow was on his way to torch the place.” Lestrade ‘hmm’ed in approval.

“Let me guess: Sherlock was on them until they hit him over the head?” Lestrade wondered. John glanced at Sherlock.

“It was more like… over the face,” he admitted, and Sherlock pointed to his swollen face. “They had rather short patience with Sherlock’s quips about their intelligence.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said, understanding everything. “Does Sherlock need an ambulance?”

“He needs to see several doctors, but I don’t think an ambulance is necessary,” John replied. “Just a drive to an A&E.” Lestrade looked down at the couple, then over at the culprit, who had just been cuffed after being untied.

“I’m going to go survey the damage,” Lestrade said as he walked off, avoiding the revolver hidden in the grass. “Don’t leave without me; I’ll drive you to the A&E.”

“Thanks,” John said as he turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock was pouting, clearly upset that John had gotten to actually catch the culprit. “Oh, Sherlock. Don’t.”

“Where did he even get that bat from?” Sherlock said, exasperated. “I didn’t even see it before it hit me.”

“They have all sorts of things stashed in and around the stumps,” John explained. “Which _you_ didn’t know because _nobody_ knew and you hadn’t been here before. You’re only human, you know.” That answer didn’t satisfy Sherlock. As he turned his head to fight with John, there was a fresh wave of searing pain and instead he gasped, collapsing back down into John’s lap with his head in his hands.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, and he pulled his jacket from Sherlock’s waist and instead pooled it beneath his head. “Sherlock, you have a concussion. Look, the case is over. You have to rest.” Sherlock opened his one good eye and was taken aback by the expression on John’s face: warmth. It was warmth. Warmth, and caring, and concern. His eyebrows were furrowed but not rigidly as before, and his jaw was set smooth. He was looking over every single crease and bruise on Sherlock’s face while holding Sherlock’s hair back. But even his hand at Sherlock’s hairline was as gentle as could be. Sherlock’s heart quickened.

“How do you feel?” John asked, in a voice only reserved for Sherlock. It was a mix of his ‘concerned doctor’ and ‘caring friend’ voices. It was low, near a whisper.

“Alright,” Sherlock admitted with a slow breath. His eyes never left John’s, who gave him a half-smile.

“You had me worried,” John said. “Really, _really_ worried. You went down like a rock, and you didn’t immediately bounce back.” He glanced at the revolver. “I had never meant to even pull the gun, but it was almost a reflex. At that moment—with you on the ground—the only possible thing that could make me feel better was seeing something worse happen to _him._ ”

The stroking from before began again. Sherlock closed his eyes and sank into John’s lap. He _was_ very tired. It felt like they hadn’t had a moment’s rest since they arrived on this assignment with Lestrade. Sherlock hadn’t slept in days, and he and John were doing completely different things for Lestrade this time around. John placed his other hand on Sherlock’s chest, who took it up immediately, settling over his heart. They sat in silence for a time, the voices of the police drifting in and out of earshot. Sherlock felt like he was falling asleep very quickly, yet with an odd awareness. He felt John lean forwards and press his mouth and nose to Sherlock’s forehead—not a kiss, just a lean, that made them both feel safe. He heard the draw of breath, as if John were about to say something.

 _How unromantic John,_ Sherlock thought. _You’d be disappointed in yourself._ John noticed Sherlock’s increased heart rate and lifted his face just a bit to see Sherlock’s. Sherlock had opened his one good eye to look up at him.

“Don’t ever do something so foolish _again,_ ” John whispered, and the words were so _heavy_ that Sherlock felt their weight beyond just this one incident. Sherlock, whether because he was tired, or from the effects of his concussion, only had the energy to give a nod. John swallowed. “Sherlock, I—”

“John! Sherlock!” Lestrade was calling. John immediately snapped his head up, blushing profusely but focusing on Lestrade. Lestrade saw the look on John’s face and looked embarrassed himself; Sherlock simply rolled his eye.

“I’m, uh, sorry to uh—yeah,” Lestrade stumbled through, after realizing he had interrupted a moment, “but we managed to get a description of the accomplices from this guy, and one of them sounds like the same man who escaped us at Alain Ducasse.” Both John’s and Sherlock’s attentions were piqued at this, and they exchanged a look of excitement of their own. “Can you take a look at this drawing?”

“In a minute, let me get Sherlock situated so he won’t wander off,” John said, and Lestrade sniggered.

“I thought I should be going to an A&E,” Sherlock said, pouting again.

“What’s your name?” John suddenly blurted.

“What?”

“Answer the question.” Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“What’s your address?”

“221B Baker Street, London.”

“What’s Lestrade’s first name?” John asked, grinning.

“ _Greg,_ ” Sherlock stressed.

“You’re fine for now,” John said, tucking his coat in around Sherlock.

“Stupid,” the detective muttered in reply. John leaned down and pecked his forehead.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all you miss,” John promised, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. 

* * *

5.

It was nighttime.

Sherlock lay on his left side, back to the door, knees pulled to his chest, scrolling through emails on his phone. The dim bedside light on his other side was his only source, and he refused to admit that maybe his eyes were getting older and _yes, John, maybe he’d eventually need glasses._ Instead he struggled, tilting his head in order to see better.

John was laid up against him, his side to Sherlock’s back, head against his shoulders, book over his lap. The duvet was pulled up to his chest and the lamp was on _his_ side of the bed so that he could read.

“John, do you need this correspondence with Lestrade? From three weeks ago?” Sherlock asked, speaking for the first time in a while. Sherlock had been re-reading some notes from older cases, trying to decide what was worth saving. John was reading another of his war novels, this time about the first Afghan war, and when Sherlock would interrupt him, he’d get a very short answer back. This time, he didn’t get a response. “John?” Sherlock asked again, still looking at his phone. John clearly hadn’t gone anywhere. “Are you asleep already?”

“Ngh?” came the response. Sherlock turned over just enough to see his partner, who was sleepily blinking. The book slid from his lap to the bed and John yawned, turning into Sherlock’s back and closing his eyes once more. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“John?”

“Mugh… Sherlock, what?” John mumbled into his back, placing a hand on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock rolled completely over, phone still in hand, so he was now facing John, who grumbled at losing his human pillow.

“Do you want this correspondence with Lestrade?” Sherlock asked again, holding his phone in front of John’s face. John opened one eye, blinked at the phone, and then shoved it out of Sherlock’s hand.

“I dunno, Schlock,” John murmured, clearly half asleep. He closed his eyes again, gentle breaths sending tufts of too-long hair fluttering. Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at him, the phone lying lifelessly between them. When they had returned from their northern adventures, Sherlock had been so sure that John was going to propose. He had been bed-bound (John’s orders) for an entire day, even after he’d been given an ice pack and an official doctor’s approval to go back to his daily routine. Not that being at the flat with John all day was undesirable, just that it was _the_ perfect opportunity. And the more Sherlock anticipated it, the more… he wanted it.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s heart was in his throat.

“John?” John’s breathing was evening out. A car horn blared outside on the street. Sherlock’s lips went dry and his body tensed.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John said, not moving. When Sherlock said nothing, John opened his eyes, and noticed the tension rigid within Sherlock’s limbs.

“Sherlock,” John said in a soft, hoarse voice, shuffling closer, “what is it?”

“Will you marry me?” Sherlock blurted out, his heart pounding so hard he was sure John could hear it. John blinked at him, and then pushed himself up, mouth open, staring down at him.

“I… what?” he said in disbelief. Sherlock sighed.

“Will you marry me?” he asked again, slower, calmer. John opened and closed his mouth once more, as if trying to formulate words but losing them in his throat. Sherlock didn’t move, still lying on his side, head resting on his pillow. John lowered back down onto his side, eyes locked on Sherlock’s.

“You knew,” was all John said. His lips broke out into a huge smile and his face flushed just in the way it did whenever he told Sherlock he loved him. Sherlock furrowed his brow, his black eye giving him an odd look, and John just wanted to laugh. “You _knew._ ”

“Knew you were planning on proposing? It was obvious,” Sherlock stated, some of his tension ebbing. John shook his head.

“I was never planning on proposing,” John responded, still smiling brightly. “But I so _desperately_ would love to marry you, you great big idiot.” It was Sherlock’s turn to sit upright, pressing against his pillow to carry his weight of surprise.

“What do you mean never planning on proposing? What—what was all that?” Sherlock said.

“All what? All my not-proposing?” John asked. He chuckled. “Sherlock, I assumed you didn’t want to get married—are you doing this _because_ of me?” John said suddenly, coming to a sitting position. His smile was still there but his face had fallen. “Sherlock, if you’re doing this because you think this is what I want—”

“I’ve never wanted to get married,” Sherlock interrupted. John bit his lower lip. “But… I would very much like to marry you.”

“I’d very much like to marry _you_ ,” John responded, his face going pink. “I… thought about proposing, and was encouraged to, but I just… thought that you’d say no. So I did other things instead.”

“You came close,” Sherlock said, turning onto his back against the pillows. “After I was hit with the bat.” John considered this, and then nodded.

“You’re right, I did,” he admitted, looking down at his hands. “I really, really did, I suppose. You just looked like you were… expecting something big,” John said, looking back up. “But I really, really thought you’d say no. I expected a no. I didn’t expect…” he gestured to the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom.

The two men sat in awkward silence, John wringing his hands and Sherlock staring at the ceiling, hands folded delicately across his stomach. The air thickened. Sherlock glanced at John to see him peering at him, and Sherlock smiled.

“So… are we engaged?” John asked tentatively. Sherlock sat up, picked his phone up, scrolled through the contacts, and then hit _call._ John watched in confusion as Sherlock pulled the pillow into his lap and sat cross-legged, looking like an over grown school child.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he said as someone clicked onto the other line. John scoffed. “I know it’s late. No, nothing is rotting or on fire up here,” Sherlock assured their worried neighbor, as he tried to shush John’s protestations of _it’s almost midnight you idiot, get off the phone._ “No, no, don’t get out of bed; I just had some gossip for you. John and I are engaged. Good—yes, this isn’t a joke, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock continued, sighing loudly. “Yes, of course. I—yes. He’s here. I think you should put the wine away and go to bed. I’ll—come bring us breakfast and we’ll discuss. Good night.” And he hung up, tossing the phone aside. He turned to John, the phone laying silent between them once more, pursing his lips.

“Mrs. Hudson opened a bottle of wine in celebration,” Sherlock offered to John’s perplexed face. “In half a second. I didn’t know she could still travel at such speeds at her age.”

“You,” John said, shaking his head, his face bright red. Sherlock smiled in a brightness that nearly matched John’s and extended his right arm, and John rolled over and into his extended embrace, leaning his arms on the pillow. He linked his hand with Sherlock’s free hand, still resting on the pillow, and nuzzled into Sherlock’s cheek. John could feel the hum of Sherlock’s voice deep in his diaphragm as he chuckled into John’s hair.

And then he was leaning back and Sherlock was kissing him with such ferocity that they sank into the pillows, hands still clasped, John losing his other hand to Sherlock’s wild hair.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured between kisses. He pulled back from the other man and looked him squarely in the eyes. Whenever Sherlock was feeling amorous, he had a strange, unusually dreamy look on his face, and that was multiplied tenfold. His cheeks were pink, lips a dark red, eyes wide and dilated, his hair was a mess and John could see the pulse in his neck throbbing wildly. It was so funny how Sherlock would comment on the ‘looks’ that John gave him when Sherlock dealt them right back. “You… really want to do this,” John said, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded. “Once I have made a decision, it is the right and most logical decision. And I knew once I told Mrs. Hudson, we wouldn’t be able to back out because she’d never stop babble—” Sherlock didn’t get the finish his thought, as John took the opportunity to kiss him again.

“It’s past midnight and I was falling asleep until you decided you wanted to get married,” John whispered, mere centimeters from the tip of Sherlock’s lips. “We’ll talk about it more tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Sherlock responded, and allowed John to curl up within his arms. “As long as we don’t get married at the same time as Mycroft.” At that, John laughed so hard into Sherlock’s chest tears rolled down his cheeks, although he was sure they weren’t entirely from laughter. One sweep of Sherlock’s cheek with his palm and he found that he was crying the same.


End file.
